Louder Than Words
by SurferSquid
Summary: Written for a contest entry, this work postulates a Force-sensitive Padme Amidala in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Geonosis, as she meets a new, unlikely ally and parts ways with an old one.


Louder Than Words

Geonosis.

The name will remain forever seared in the memory of the Republic.

The blaster shots and lightsaber hums have been heard around the galaxy, and the battle that has just taken place will be known as one that launched a million ships carrying droids and clones and Jedi, all the expendable pawns of the cruel and endless game of war.

Padmé Amidala knows all of this, and yet at the moment she does not care.

She has felt the rumblings of war, perturbing the galaxy for years. This sense of quiet unease has plagued her since before she was elected Queen. It was inevitable, unavoidable that it could come to this, she thinks as she sits in a medbay holding the remaining hand of her beloved Jedi Knight, Anakin Skywalker.

He grunts and struggles with the pain of the droid medic tending to his wounds, and her empathy is only amplified by the fact that she can sense his discomfort and despair and anger, just as she can sense and has sensed numerous disturbances in others. She does not excel in her senatorial duties by mere power of intellect and rhetoric alone, she thinks with a wry smile.

But she cannot let him know that. She cannot let anyone know. It would alter her life forever; she would no longer be able to serve in the Senate, she perceives that much. However, she is also well aware of how her abilities are going to serve her in the coming days, months, perhaps even years. War is an unpredictable thing, but the Force will level the playing field quite a bit. Or so she hopes.

"I've already made arrangements to get you a cybernetic arm and hand," Knight Kenobi announces, striding into the room. He looks worse for the wear, Padmé observes, but she senses that he seems to be taking things rather well. Or perhaps he is just in denial. The Force is murky around his emotions at the moment.

Anakin's, however, are quite clear. They have always cried out like a clarion call to her (and, she suspects, to every Force-sensitive being within reasonable proximity). She thinks back to the first time she had felt him through the Force, when he was a dusty little slave boy on a desolate desert world. His emotions have only grown stronger, she realizes. Does he know what he is doing? Is Kenobi aware of this severe breach in Jedi protocol? She loves Anakin, but she also knows quite well that duty must always come before love.

"It's going to be…like normal, right?" Anakin pleads desperately with his Master. "I'll still be able to wield my 'saber?" He looks down anxiously at the weapon clipped to his belt.

Kenobi nods. "Top of the line cybernetics. It'll feel strange at first, or so I'm told, but it'll have full articulation and everything." He offers a faint smile, trying to comfort his Padawan. "And it will possess far more strength and stamina than an organic limb."

Anakin pouts, but his blue eyes betray his thoughtfulness, his love for all things mechanical. He raises an eyebrow in curiosity. "Maybe I could get used to this cybernetics thing, then," he says, flashing a confident grin.

Kenobi laughs, and Padmé cannot help but chuckle as well. This is why she does not care, for the time being, that war has just broken out. Because right now, she wishes desperately that she could block out the rest of the galaxy, pretend like her world consists entirely of herself and Anakin and his master in this room talking and laughing and being friends. Such moments have not come often to her, and she knows she must savor them now so she may look back on them in the dark times ahead.

Suddenly, like a vibrodagger, a piercing pang of utmost sorrow and despair jabs at her mind with such intensity that she flinches, stops laughing, her face growing cold and serious.

And it has not come from Anakin.

"Take me back to the surface," she says with such sudden intensity that she surprises even herself. Is that where this hurt is coming from? Yes, she realizes upon further reaching into the Force. Something, some_one_ there needs help, and she cannot let their pleas go unheard.

Anakin and Kenobi are shocked, and rightly so. "Senator, the ship is due to engage its hyperdrives as soon as we receive the all-clear," the Knight explains, knowing full well that it is an exercise in futility to try to argue with a member of the Republic Senate.

His Padawan, as well, looks up at her in confusion, his feelings marred by a sudden anger. "No," he says, clutching her hand tightly. "Stay here…with me."

Padmé flinches; she can feel how badly he longs for her to remain at his side. She looks into his cold blue eyes and sees and senses no gentleness, no sweet affection. They have been replaced by a hunger, a yearning bordering on greed that thinks of nothing but itself and will do whatever it takes to cling to what it holds dear. She has sensed this from him several times, but it was at its peak on the cold Tatooine night when he found and lost his mother. Now it is back with a passionate vengeance.

It frightens her.

She pulls away from his grip before it can tighten, approaches Kenobi and leaves Anakin to take out his frustrations on the medical droid. "Take me down to the surface," she reiterates, glaring at him with fierce eyes of burning amber. "That is a direct order." Now, not only does she wish to discern the source of this disturbance in the Force, but she wishes to distance herself from Anakin. They have become too close too fast, she realizes sadly, and his love for her threatens to consume his sense of reason, his very humanity. It is a dangerous thing. Some time away from her will do him good, she thinks. She finds herself missing the day a decade ago when he was speaking innocently and earnestly to her about marriage without either of them really knowing what it meant. She suspects he still does not quite know.

Kenobi relents, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "…I'll see what I can do, Senator."

***

Dusk has settled on a small sliver of the cracked and tortuous planet of Geonosis. The sun-baked landscape is now drenched in deep purple-grey, the sky an indistinct and smoky haze. The temperature has already begun to drop and will soon reach levels dangerous to more vulnerable species.

With a soft grunt, a dark-haired Human boy fixes the edge of a flat stone firmly in the crumbled dirt at one end of an elongated mound, some distance away from a massive and towering red-rock formation. He thinks for a moment, then fetches a small blade from a utility belt on the ground at his side, lying next to a carefully folded flight suit and immaculately arranged armor and weaponry. Perched at the pinnacle of this neatly liturgical alignment of equipment is a blue-and-silver helmet and a jetpack. It is the best he can do in lieu of a proper funeral ceremony.

Working intently, the boy scratches crude markings into the stone, scraping away the dark veneer into the shapes of a jenth and forn. Once done, he tucks the blade away and sits back, viewing his accomplishment. It has taken him several hours to dig out this impromptu grave from the brick-hard soil of the arid world. But he has made sure to dig it deep. No scavenging carnivore will ever disturb the slumber of Jango Fett.

If only Jango could appreciate what his son has done for him, Boba thinks despondently. The child wishes desperately to hear his father's voice again, speaking words of praise and pride, brimming with enthusiasm for how well Boba is learning the ways of the _Mando'ade_. A chill runs over his skin; the wind is picking up. He gauges that he will be able to make it back to his father's ship adequately enough, wearing his father's armor to keep him warm. Except they are _his_ ship and _his_ armor now, Boba reminds himself. Jango has made it clear to him on several occasions that, should anything happen to the bounty hunter, Boba will be the sole recipient of Jango's belongings, and his fortune.

But Boba would forego all of the ships and weapons and credits in the galaxy just to have his father back.

Feebly, he stumbles over to the small armor-shrine and sits on the cold, unforgiving ground, clutching the helmet tightly to his chest, resting his forehead on its smooth, comforting surface. It would be all the more comforting if there was a Jango inside looking out at him with loving brown eyes. But the helmet is empty, and now Boba must be the one to occupy it.

As hot tears begin to splatter against the visor of the helmet, creating trails in the dust caked on its surface, Boba decides to allow himself just one brief moment of weakness in sorrow, the last he vows he will ever know. For this tiny snatch of time, alone in this wasteland, he does not want to be _Mando'ade_. He does not want to be a warrior. He wants to be Boba Fett, the boy, just the boy, with a bright and inquiring mind to match the keen glimmer of his eyes, with a mischievous bent that causes him to play tricks and then feel sorry about it afterward, but not _too_ sorry because it was so much fun, who likes those times in realspace when it's dark and quiet and he's sitting in the copilot's seat and he thinks his father is asleep, but then Jango will start talking about the different types of stars and how they are born and die, and Boba is able to look out at the vast galactic sea while Jango is teaching him and he realizes just how small he is, and yet he is at peace with that because he has a father to love him, and whom he loves just as dearly.

And all of that has been taken away with a single swipe of a lightsaber blade.

"_Kandosii sa ka'rta_…" he murmurs softly, his cracking voice barely able to eke out a melody. "_Vode an_—"

The dull crunching thud of boots on parched ground makes him stop. He grabs one of his father's blasters and spins around, training the pistol's aim on this intruder into his private mourning. (Despite his father's predilection for the dual-pistol wielding technique, Boba has always preferred just using one—after all, it frees up his other hand to do something else to catch his opponent off guard. And he likes to think that he is such a good marksman that a single blaster shot will be adequate to finish any job.)

The trespasser wears a white cloak, billowed about by the night wind, that makes her look like some sort of desert phantom, but Boba is not fooled. He recognizes her as the woman who was supposed to die in the arena earlier that day; she has not even had the chance to change out of her tattered clothing from that botched execution attempt. What is she doing here? he wonders. He had been looking forward to watching her be torn limb from limb, but in the ensuing fracas he had lost sight of her and had not known whether she survived. It surprises him that she has—she does not appear strong at all. Except for the look in her eyes and the way she carries herself, he admits. But he is still stronger than she. And if she comes any closer to him, he will be happy to demonstrate that to her.

Padmé comes to an abrupt halt when she sees the blaster pistol pointing at her head. She can tell from the way this boy grips the gun, his professional stance, that he is no stranger to using it, no clumsy-fingered youth pretending to be a hero. There is something markedly different about this child. Aside from that, she senses such genuine anguish and loneliness from him that she knows that he must have been the one whose distress reached out to her through the Force across the vastness of space. "Don't shoot," she entreats softly. "I'm here to help." Her hand twitches toward the blaster at her hip, but she restrains herself. This must be solved with words, not weapons.

"I don't need any help," Boba replies curtly, gesturing threateningly with the blaster. Who does this woman think she is, being so presumptuous as to assume he requires some sort of assistance? He's already done the job of burying Jango, she's come too late to aid him in that.

Padmé remains motionless, save for her eyes, which glance over at the pile of dirt in back of the boy and the assorted equipment at his feet. The helmet is easily recognizeable. From there, it isn't too difficult to make an educated conjecture about what has transpired here. "…He was your father, wasn't he," she says gently.

"…Yes," Boba sobs, discarding the blaster and dropping to his knees, digging his fingers into the frigid earth as he is overwhelmed by heartache. His head is bowed—he mustn't let her see him cry. He wants to kill her, but he knows that his small body is trembling too badly to maintain any semblance of a steady hand.

Overcome by compassion, Padmé kneels in front of him and wraps her arms around his shaking frame, knowing full well that just within arm's reach are myriad methods whereby both of them could end the other's life, and yet she stakes her safety in the name of supplication, trying to help him cope with this devastating loss, attempting to forge a tenuous trust between the two of them.

She'd had no idea the bounty hunter had a son. This changes her perception of the man somewhat, as she suddenly finds herself wondering how things might have been different if he had been fighting on their side. She feels a debt to the boy—his world has been shattered by the arena battle, through no fault of his own. And he reminds her much of Anakin—not as she knows the Jedi now, but as she knew him years ago, when he was this age. Being here with the bounty hunter's son transports her back to the days she spent with the boy-Anakin. Back before things got frustratingly complicated.

Boba has never quite been hugged like this before, and it catches him by surprise, at first thinking that the woman is trying to put him in some sort of disabling hold. But no, her touch is not aggressive, and she offers welcome warmth in the growing chill. Zam Wesell never hugged him; she talked with him and instructed him, let him learn how to use her weapons and thought he looked terribly amusing wearing her helmet, but that was always just a prelude to conducting business with his father. (All the same, he took the news of her death quite hard.) And Taun We is a kindly female, always willing to assist him in whatever way she can during his stays on Kamino (will he ever go back there again?), but she is not fond of physical touch, rather unlike this Human woman.

"It'll be all right," Padmé whispers, running her numbing fingers through the boy's obsidian curls. It is all she can think of to say at the moment. She does not know exactly _how_ things will be all right, not when the floodgates have been opened and war is cascading down upon the galaxy in an unstoppable torrent of death, but she can at least try to make things better for him.

"How can you even say that?" he asks, frowning as he breaks away to study her face. Her gaze betrays no vulnerability, only a steady, quiet strength and determination smouldering behind auburn eyes. He finds he likes that about her. It is not the sort of thing he sees often in the eyes of sentients. "Dad's _dead_." That small statement carries all of the emotional weight of a young soul burdened with a considerable legacy. He is alone in the galaxy.

"I know, and I'm sorry," Padmé replies quietly, clasping a hand on his shoulder as she dabs away his tears with her cloak. There must be something she can do to help him, she thinks. He should not have to suffer like this. She begins to open her mouth to suggest something, but suddenly her comlink beeps, startling them both. Reluctantly, she brings it out and accepts the communication while Boba watches, curious.

"Padmé, where are you?" Anakin's nagging tone comes across clearly, cutting through the howling winds. "You've been gone too long. We need to leave, _now_."

"I…" She looks up at Boba, his brow furrowed as he wonders whether she will betray him. "Can you wait just a little while longer? There is something here I need to do." She does not quite know yet what to do with this boy. Convincing him to join her on a Republic ship bound for Coruscant will most probably not go over well.

"No," the fizzing voice coming over the comlink insists. "Come back." This time there is a hint of desperation mingled with the overlying irritation.

Padmé's lips grow tight as she grips the device. He hasn't grown at all. Wordlessly, she switches the comlink off and puts it back on her belt. More pressing matters command her attention than a whiny Padawan. She smiles at the boy and extends a hand in introduction. "I'm Padmé Amidala. You are…?"

He regards her suspiciously, but slowly slips his hand into hers, giving it a firm shake like he was taught to do by his father. "Fett. Boba Fett."

"Boba, I have a…business proposition for you," Padmé continues. She knows how to do this without damaging his boyish pride. She can tell that he won't tolerate condescension, despite his youth. "A war is dawning across the galaxy, and I think I'm going to need someone with me to keep me safe. I've seen that you know how to handle a blaster, and I'm sure your father has taught you much more than that." She helps him to his feet and throws her cloak over his shoulders to help keep him warm. "Would you like to be my bodyguard? I'll pay you appreciably for your service, of course." Thankfully, the office of senator is not exactly a two-credit job.

Bodyguard? Boba kicks the dirt absently in thought. He'd wanted to be a bounty hunter, like his father. But perhaps there will be time for that later. For now, he just hopes there will be more hugs in his foreseeable future. Not that he would ever admit that out loud. "We have a deal," he announces professionally, looking up at her. He grins. "You'll be safe in _Slave I_, don't worry." From the brief conversation he was just privy to, he is guessing that she does not exactly want to return from whence she came. The thought comes to him that there might be a hefty bounty on her head, but then he remembers that Jango was already paid for delivering her into the hands of the Separatists. Now she is his charge, not his target. He is glad that he has found that loophole.

"Come on, help me get this stuff back to the ship." He reaches down and grabs the helmet, pulling it over his head, having no idea how comical it looks atop his short body. Not only does it shield his face from the freezing wind and provide him some comfort in familiarity, but he would be an idiot not to utilize the helpful information provided in the readouts. As he transmits commands to _Slave I_ to activate its internal environmental controls and raise the temperature inside to a comfortable level, he busies himself with grabbing as much weaponry and equipment as he can, attaching belts around his waist and slinging armor over his shoulder until he looks like a walking armory. He can barely move, but he doesn't care. He won't leave any of his father's things behind.

Padmé can't help but chuckle as she picks up the remaining pieces and takes a few from him to lighten his load. "How far away is it?" The wind is steadily becoming stronger, and colder.

"Not too far," Boba states, his youthful voice muffled by the helmet as he marches across the empty plain with Padmé at his side. He looks back over his shoulder at Jango's grave, sending his last silent farewells. Now it is time to move on. He has a job to do. He wonders what Padmé will think of _Slave I_, if she will appreciate its extensive armaments and powerful engines as much as he does. He cannot help but grin as he realizes that he will be sitting in the pilot's seat from now on, finally. (He has not bothered to count the times Jango good-naturedly shooed him off of that revered chair.)

And perhaps, during times when they are suspended in realspace with the engines at rest, he will tell her about the stars.


End file.
